This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.
“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”
I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.
But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.
At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.
The woman behind the counter asked me a question. Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”
“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.
“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.
“Oh. Where is that?”
This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.
And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.
We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.
A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.
“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.
All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens
I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.
“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.
I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.
The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.
(ps. We plan to go back for another turn on the ride. This time, Lila’s taking pictures.)
This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.
“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”
I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.
But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.
At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.
The woman behind the counter asked me a question. Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”
“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.
“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.
“Oh. Where is that?”
This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.
And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.
We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.
A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.
“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.
All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens
I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.
“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.
I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.
The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.
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